The Addict
by Olivia Gilbert
Summary: Three years after Reichenbach Mycroft informs John that Sherlock is still alive, but has managed to fall off of the grid. Mentions drug use.
1. Chapter 1

John had been working for ten hours at Bart's for the sixth day in a row and as he made his way up the stairs of 221B he was more than ready to sleep the weekend away. When he reached the top of the stairs he paused at the door that stood ajar in front of him. He was certain he had closed it when he left that morning.

John reached for the gun that always resided behind his back when he left the flat. He didn't take it out but he made sure he had a firm grip on it. Carefully he pushed the door open and took a tentative step in.

Nothing looked unusual. There was no sign that anyone had been there; but John was wary and certain that something was different. He took a few steps into the room before noticing the figure sitting motionless in John's chair. John's grip on his gun tightened and he stopped moving forward. The figure leaned forward and Mycroft looked at John with a mixture of amusement and reproof.

"I think I preferred it when you sent the car." John said wearily, releasing the grip on his gun.

"It was a bit urgent and I thought familiar surroundings would be best for our chat." Mycroft stood and looked around the room. "You haven't changed a thing here. It looks just as it did three years ago. Though perhaps a bit tidier."

John sighed and sat on the couch.

"Please don't start, Mycroft. The one thing I've always appreciated about you is that you haven't tried to talk sense into me all this time."

"Hm, yes. Well I certainly won't start now. I might as well get down to it. I'm here on a rather sensitive matter and I want your careful attention."

John didn't move. He was perfectly comfortable in his current position and saw no need to change it. Mycroft's important news was rarely as urgent as he made it seem these days and John could hear him just fine.

Mycroft watched John for a few moments until it was clear that John was not going to move.

"John there's a very simple reason why I've never tried to get you to move on: Sherlock is not dead."

For a few moments John was sure he had misheard. Surely Mycroft had not just said what he had heard. He sat forward.

"I'm sorry, it sounded as though you just said Sherlock is not dead."

"That is precisely what I said."

John stared intently at Mycroft trying to process everything. He looked for any sign that the elder Holmes man was lying or even uncertain about what he had just said. It didn't make sense. None of it did.

"How? I saw him. How could he…?" John trailed off, unable to say aloud the one thing he wished for more than anything.

"How is unimportant. What is important now is where. That's when things get a bit sticky."

John eyes Mycroft critically. He was annoyed at the dismissive answer but worried by the look Mycroft had now.

"What do you mean by sticky?"

Mycroft stood and walked to the window. The same window Sherlock had always had a habit of standing at to play his violin. John could picture Sherlock now, ignoring the world, and supposed there was a possibility he could see him again. John tried to focus back on the present as Mycroft spoke again.

"I've kept tabs on Sherlock over the last three years but two days ago he…well, he went off the grid."

"Off the grid? Is that even possible with you?" John couldn't believe it. Mycroft. Of all people how could _Mycroft_ lose someone?

"Of course it is." Mycroft seemed offended and complimented in one. It irked John. "It just doesn't happen very often. Honestly I believe Sherlock is the only one who could do it."

John grumbled to himself. It figured. Sherlock the genius, the man who apparently faked his suicide so well _would_ be able to slip even Mycroft.

"Why are you telling me this? Why would you tell me he's alive only to tell me he's missing, presumably only to be found when he wants to, or never…?"

John's words hung in the air as Mycroft paused. For a moment John wondered if the tall man at the window was going to say anything.

"Not never. He's still alive. He's been out chasing down Moriarty's men, every last one. He'd finished. He was done. He was coming back. Then he just…disappeared."

"How close did he get? How close to London? To 221B?" John had a sneaking suspicion he might be able to find Sherlock, and an even bigger suspicion that Mycroft had come by for that exact reason.

"He was last seen just outside of London, south side. Do you know anything about that area, John? Do you know what Sherlock might be doing there?"

John knew that lying wouldn't do much good with a Holmes so he did the best he could.

"I'm not sure, Mycroft. Sherlock was always a bit of a mystery to me and he's had three years to create new levels of mystery to begin unraveling."

Technically everything John said was true. Technically.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Mycroft had left 221B John walked over to Sherlock's room. He opened the door, knowing full well what he would find. Once John had finally managed to make it back to 221B after that day three years ago he had left Sherlock's room alone. He had cleaned the rest of the flat over the course of a few days, but he was determined to leave Sherlock's room alone. He was determined until he found the syringe behind a loose tile on the bathroom wall.

The syringe confused John at first. He thought perhaps it had belonged to a previous tenant. But of course, he remembered almost instantly, Sherlock had gotten a very strange look when Lestrade had come on a phony drugs bust not so long after John and Sherlock had met. He assumed at the time that Sherlock couldn't possibly have any drugs, the very thought was absurd, but that look unnerved him. Once John held the syringe he knew what Sherlock had been trying to tell him. "Shut up. Not because you shouldn't speak but because I don't want them rummaging around here long enough to find what I've hidden."

The effect on John of finding the syringe was immediate. He clutched it angrily and swore. He cursed Sherlock over and over again. John had trusted him. But now he played the fool again. He had known that Sherlock had his secrets, more than the average person, but this…this pushed John over the edge.

Without hesitation John burst into Sherlock's untouched room and began tearing it to pieces. It took him the remainder of the day to go through the entire room but by the end he had a pile of syringes and a reasonable belief that there weren't any left in the room to show for his efforts. Two days later the pile had doubled, but the flat, John was relatively sure, no longer contained any hidden surprises.

After that John spent a week trying to put the flat back in order before Mrs. Hudson could come and wonder just which of her tenants had truly been the messy one. He had cleaned Sherlock's room in the process, and every few months he returned to dust and keep up the room for…for no reason he could fully form in his mind.

As John entered it now it looked just as he expected and he slowly walked over to the bed. He sat down, sighing as he looked around. If he was going to find Sherlock he'd have to go out into that scene. He'd been there once now, when he had wanted to know what was in the syringes. Going back wouldn't be so hard. He had contacts now, right? Slowly John lowered his face into his hands. How could any of this be real?

For two days John trudged through the back alleys and less agreeable parts of London a clue finally began to lead somewhere. Sherlock's homeless network came through, whispering to John that his best friend had been spotted only two days before entering an abandoned house only a few blocks away. As soon as John was sure of the exact location of this house he turned his back on his informant, forgetting to thank him in his rush to find Sherlock.

John nearly ran to the house, not caring that he bumped into more than one druggie in his quest. They were not important. Sherlock was important. When John reached the house he stopped in his tracks. He stared at the door as though it couldn't be real. Sherlock. Living, breathing Sherlock. Living, breathing, drug using Sherlock. John didn't waste any more time in climbing the stairs to the front door and turning the handle.

The door wasn't locked and John slowly made his way into the dim entryway. The light barely illuminated the crumbling interior. Wooden beams were falling down and cobwebs covered most of the doorways. The stairs were the only area that showed signs of use and John climbed them slowly. He didn't know if he was trying to avoid making noise that might startle Sherlock or if he was still trying to decide if this could possibly be real.

John paused for only a second at the top of the stairs. There was a soft light up ahead and John could feel his mind and heart willing him forward. When he found the source of the light he stopped, a cold shiver running down his back.

"Sherlock."


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock!"

John ran forward to the thin man hunched over in the chair. He quickly took in the pealing wallpaper, scraps of wood from the rotting walls, and cobwebs everywhere. When he reached the chair he knelt in front of Sherlock, still having trouble believing it was his Sherlock. His hair was shorter and greasy with bits of dirt and cobwebs. His clothes were rumpled and uncared for, but intact. Sherlock himself was slumped forward, his eyes barely able to open.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "what have you done?"

Sherlock didn't move and John quickly checked his pulse. It was too high. Too fast. John moved Sherlock's arm and sighed. The syringe was still there. John gently removed the needle and set it under the chair. He wasn't sure what he had expected to find, but not this. He should have known this was a possibility but he had hoped for something a bit more promising. Maybe if Sherlock had been conscious…but he wasn't.

"Come on! Open your eyes, Sherlock!"

When John shook Sherlock his head only flopped back. John stood up suddenly and took three rapid steps back until he hit the wall. There had to be something he could do. He considered texting Mycroft, he would probably be able to fix this situation, but John couldn't. Mycroft had come to him. Sherlock was his best friend. It was John's job to fix this. He was a doctor, he could do this.

"No." Sherlock moaned.

John ran back to Sherlock's side. He was still pale and sweating but now there was something, John couldn't tell just what, but Sherlock was _there_ somehow.

"Sherlock? Sherlock talk to me."

"No. Don't hurt him." Sherlock's eyes were open but he didn't seem to be looking at anything at all. John looked around; there didn't seem to be anything or anyone around them. "Stay back. Just stop." Sherlock's voice was weak.

"No one's doing anything, Sherlock. It's fine." John said, trying to soothe Sherlock's panic.

John checked Sherlock's eyes. His pupils were dilated. Could they _get_ any more dilated?

"Look Sherlock, everything's going to be fine."

He pulled out his phone and messaged the only person other than Mycroft he could think of.

_221B. Urgent. Come at once. –JW_

John slipped his phone back into his pocket quickly and stood up. He lifted the tall, and apparently thinner, Sherlock out of the chair and wrapped one of Sherlock's arms around his own neck.

"It's not my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Sherlock's voice was panicked and John stopped to reassure him once more. When he spoke Sherlock's breathing eased slightly and his eyes closed. He seemed to grow heavier in John's arms.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Nothing seemed to wake him now.

John checked the room before carefully walking him down the stairs. Sherlock hung limp by his side but John managed as well as he could, trying not to drag him too much. It took a few minutes to get to the corner at the end of the side street but he was rewarded with a cab almost immediately. The cabbie looked a bit wary of John and the once again unconscious man at his side but said nothing as they got in. John figured this area of town was no stranger to this kind of activity.

Lestrade was already waiting outside of 221B when John's cab pulled up. John immediately regretted texting him, but knew he needed him all the same. When Lestrade noticed the cab he began walking toward it but stopped just before he reached the opening door.

"John who…is that…?"

"It's a long story, Lestrade. Will you help me get him upstairs?"

Lestrade stepped forward as John attempted to get Sherlock out of the cab. It was a bit more difficult than getting him in. Eventually they managed it and dragged him up the stairs to the flat. After laying him gently on the couch John filled a glass of water from the kitchen and brought it in to Sherlock.

"John, what's going on here?"

"He's taken something, Lestrade. I'm not sure what exactly but I have a pretty good idea."

"Yes, but…John…how?" Lestrade stared at Sherlock.

John paused. He knew exactly what Lestrade was asking but he didn't have an answer. How? It was the question that had haunted him since Mycroft's unexpected visit. He was no closer to answering it now than he had been then.

"I don't know," John said quietly as he wiped a damp cloth over Sherlock's forhead.

John spent the next few hours at Sherlock's side, only leaving when he had to get something from the kitchen. Lestrade stayed and John could tell the detective inspector felt even more helpless than he did, but he chose not to disturb the confused and anxious silence between them. Occasionally Sherlock would call out, frantic, and John was there to soothe the nightmares he couldn't see.

_Note: I am so sorry this has taken me so long to update. I can't believe how much of a response it has gotten. Thank you all so much! I hope you enjoy!_


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